


No Need for Long Goodbyes

by Tamagoakura (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Animal Death, Cheating, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, Eating Disorders, F/M, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Sibling Incest, Slurs, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-05-05 06:26:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5364845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Tamagoakura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pain from a life filled with sexual and physical abuse festers inside of Alfred, pushing him to lash out at the people he loves the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I grew up in a small town east of Grand Rapids, Minnesota, with my father and younger brother. My father had come to this country from London some six years before I was born. He told me once, when we were playing eights at the kitchen table, that he traveled a lot when he got here. He landed in Richmond, Virginia with nothing to his name but a few bags of personal belongings and twenty bucks in his pocket. He was a bartender, and actually good at it. After working in one place for a while he would pull up stakes and leave. He said the scenery got boring, that he was restless but it always felt like a lie. Because of this he went as far as Mississippi before turning north.

He met my mother somewhere near the Canadian border, not long after she completed her immigration into the US. I don’t remember much about her, except that she had the longest blonde hair I had ever seen and I used to play with it while she read me to sleep at night. Sometimes, when her voice broke she would hang her head to try and use those long strands to hide her tears from me. Hide the marks. By the time I was four years old she was pregnant and it was hard on her. She was bedridden for weeks before she became so ill that my father felt it necessary for her to be admitted to a hospital. Being as young as I was, I never thought to ask what exactly was wrong and later on Arthur refused to talk about it.

She went into labor early, on July 1st, 1986, just three days before my fifth birthday. I can vaguely  remember lying on the waiting room chairs, whining incessantly at Arthur about how bored I was. He would tell me to be quiet and pace up and down the small room. I must have fallen asleep for some time, because the only thing I remember after that was Arthur’s strained voice calling me and opening my eyes to look at a pudgy little face that was lax with sleep.

“Alfred, say hello to Matthew.” Arthur’s voice was so choked, and his eyes were a puffy red. I was confused, they had been making such a fuss about the new baby, so why would my father be sad?

On the ride home the front passenger seat felt deserted. On my birthday Arthur, baby Matthew swaddled and asleep, and myself went to the graveyard. Long after the final clump of earth had been dropped over the bloated grave, Arthur made no show of leaving. I was sitting in the grass, the hot July sun beating down, combating boredom by watching various insects crawl through the blades. Matthew wriggled a bit, cracked one eye open, and began to cry. Arthur flinched at the sound but didn't move. After a moment he tilted his head back. His eyes were devoid of tears and his expression neutral when he cast his gaze down to my brother.

Very quietly, voice even and calm, he said, "It should have been you."

When we got home Arthur put Matthew in his room and went about boxing my mother's things. Shoes, clothes, comb and toothbrush. Little things I had never really noticed until they were gone, snippets of her life that had seemed so inconsequential before went into cardboard boxes and down into the basement. Arthur worked silently, each and every box deepening his expression of sorrow until the house was bare of her and his eyes were wet with tears.  I was sitting on the living room floor watching cartoons when I heard a pathetic keening sound come from the kitchen.

"Daddy what's wrong?" I called out and received no answer other than a few soft sobs. Concerned, I got up and padded into the kitchen. Arthur was leaning with his back against the wall and heel of his palm pressed over one eye, trying to cry as quietly as he could. I went over to him and patted him on the leg to get his attention.

"Go and watch the tele." He muttered without looking at me.

"Daddy don't cry." I patted him on the leg again, unsure of what to do. My parents had always been the ones to comfort me when I was upset, not the other way around. "When mommy comes home she can kiss it better, so don't cry okay?"

He visibly tensed, recoiling from my words as if I had struck him. His eyes hardened and for a second he glared at me with such hate that I immediately took a few quick steps back. A stab of fear churned deep down in my belly and I bit the inside of my cheek. Never before had I been so terrified of him. I opened my mouth to apologize even though I didn't know what I had done wrong when he struck out and backhanded me hard enough to send me crashing to the floor.

I laid there a moment holding my sore cheek and staring up at him in shock. The anger in his eyes faded as quickly as it had come, immediately replaced by horror. Stinging tears welled up in my eyes as what had happened finally registered in my young mind. As my breathing sped to a rapid heaving prelude to a harsh cry he dropped down onto his knees and yanked me into a crushing hug.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Alfred. I didn't mean to do that but you can't..." He buried his face in the crook of my neck, "You can't talk about mummy right now, okay?"

The tears finally broke, tracing rapidly cooling twin lines down my cheeks. I cried and wrapped my arms around him, because although he had caused the pain he was my daddy, and I didn't feel safer anywhere but in his arms.

The knowledge of my mother's death settled over me slowly, bit by bit, and I gradually accepted it. Maybe it was because I was so young, but I don't remember feeling any great sense of loss over her. Arthur, on the other hand, took it hard. My mother used to handle all of the household chores, as well as cook, but now that she was gone those jobs fell into my father's lap. Working full time as well as doing all of the cleaning left him exhausted most days, but cooking struck him as the most challenging. He tried to put effort into it at first and nearly burned the house down.

One month from her funeral - on the day exactly - Arthur seemed even more out of sorts. He spent most of the day wandering around idly, retracing his steps as if he had a goal in mind but could never remember it long enough to get it done. He went through the motions of feeding and changing my little brother but never so much as spared that baby any unnecessary glance. I tried to get him to play checkers with me, to get him to smile (he had been doing that less and less those days) just for a little while, but he shook his head and told me to go away in a dull, distracted voice. He went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of scotch, then went out onto the porch to watch the sky and slowly nurse it until the setting sun cast long rays of orange light through the windows.

When Arthur came back in I was lying on the living room floor with baby Matthew beside me on a pillow. The infant was fast asleep, as usual, and Arthur didn't seem to notice him when he turned to address me.

"Are you hungry?"

I nodded enthusiastically. In his stupor, Arthur had forgotten to prepare me anything to eat throughout the entire day and I had kept myself full with a bag of chips that I managed to pull down from it's high place in the pantry. Although Matthew had been given a bottle that morning, he was a baby and needed to eat often so he had spent much of the day wailing until his voice was hoarse and he finally gave up and fell asleep. Arthur offered a little grunt of a reply and went off into the kitchen to try and cook something edible.

He called me into the kitchen about a half an hour later. As I went about washing my hands in the sink, he brought a fresh bottle to Matthew but left my brother in the living room to eat. I sat down at the table, wiping my wet hands on the legs of my pants, and my father put a plate of (only slightly watery) spaghetti before me, one to my right, and another in front of his own place. I didn't think much of the extra plate, I was too excited to have something warm in my stomach. A few minutes passed, quiet but for the sound of my fork occasionally clanking against my plate.

Halfway through a bite, Arthur looked up and seemed to notice the extra serving for the first time. I'll never forget that look: it was as if a part of him just broke. He let out a low whine, took a deep breath, and yelled out a curse so loud that it startled the baby enough to cry. He yelled again, and again, and again, one long intertwined explosion of expletives. His sudden passion upset me as well. It must have looked ridiculous, my dad yelling about an extra plate of over-salted pasta, the baby on the pillow on the floor in the living room shrieking, me sitting in my chair bawling my eyes out because I didn't know what else to do.

He called my mother every unsavory name he could think of. How could she die? How could she be so selfish as to just to leave him alone? He demanded an answer again and again as if the knowledge would materialize from thin air and make itself known. As his outburst slowly tapered off, so did my crying. After a while he just let his head fall to the tabletop and lay there. Matthew was still crying as my father's tears made dark stains on the wood.

Once I had calmed down I went to check on Matthew. He was lying where we had left him, his round face scrunched up in frustration as he fought against his own uncoordinated limbs to grab his bottle. I handed it to him and he made a happy cooing sound.

It started with a glass of dry scotch in the evenings when he was off of work. He would slowly sip it as he watched TV, or sit outside and work on his buzz while he plucked out gentle tunes on his guitar. As time passed, that single glass turned into two, then three, then four and a few beers. He would wake up irritable and groggy with a hangover so eventually a beer or couple of shots accompanied his breakfast as well. "Hair of the dog," he called it. He bought a flask and started carrying it with him to work, but that didn't last as his boss caught on quickly. He was given another chance and blew it only a week later by coming into work half shot.

I quickly learned to make myself scarce when he was drinking. The slightest things would set him off. At first he just yelled and stomped around the house, but that soon turned to throwing whatever he could get his hands on, and eventually to taking it out on me. I spent many long nights in Matthew's room - the only place in the house he avoided - having one-sided hushed conversations with his normally sleeping form or flipping through simple books. I hated it when he opened a fresh bottle or can. I hated it when he drank until his sentences came out in a slurred mess and he reeked of the alcohol he spilled onto himself while stumbling and tripping over nothing. Although he was sad when he was sober, he seemed even more so when he drank. I didn't understand why he would do something that so obviously upset him. I just wanted to see him happy again, because although he would yell and hit me when he was angry, he was still my dad and more than anything I just wanted him to be happy.

If the booze was what was making him upset and angry, of course I assumed the way to fix things was to get rid of it. One night when he was passed out on the couch I took every bottle and can I could find, as well as filching the flask off of his sleeping form, and started dumping all of it into the toilet. The bitter, sickly-sweet smell of beer and dark liquor mixing made me gag as bottle after bottle emptied out. I had gone through three bottles and half of a case of beer when he came into the bathroom, presumably to piss out some of what he had drank earlier.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He snapped, snatching the half-opened can out of my hand. I shrunk back toward the wall, staring up at him with wide eyes. I didn't know what to say, and even if I did I couldn't force anything from my fear-choked throat.

"I asked you what you were doing!" I yelped when he smacked me upside the head. I was panicking, everything in my body screaming at me to run away and hide but there was no way out of the room with his body blocking the door.

"I don't want you to drink anymore..." I murmured, staring at the floor.

"Who buys this shit? You?" I screamed when he snatched me by the hair and forced me to look up at him. I tried to pry his hand away but I was too small. He yanked up harshly as I begged him to please, please just let go. My scalp burned and stung with each harsh movement but I couldn't appreciate the relief when he finally threw me to the floor. I instinctually curled up into a tight ball, apologizing over and over again for fear that he would hit me.

He cracked open the can he was holding and glared down at me. "Don't touch my things or I'll really give you something to cry about."

Some years down the road, due to his inability to keep a steady job, we ended up scraping out a meager living in a tiny house off of highway 169. Most of our clothes were hand-me-down affairs from the Goodwill or Trendy Thrift down the street, and what few toys Matthew and I shared were almost entirely scavenged from McDonald’s floors and play places. Arthur barely bought food, and we routinely lost electricity due to unpaid bills. Our game system was the first to see the open and hungry maw of the local Quickie Pawn. That was followed shortly by most everything that would sell. I went with him one day, I was something like seven years old, when he showed off a beautiful string of rubies. While the shop-keep looked over the expensive jewels, I had wandered around to look at the toys. There were Slinkys and bikes and GI Joes, but all I saw was the sad look in the kid’s eyes who had once played with those toys, the loss of having one’s items snatched away for someone else to browse through and buy on their lazy Sunday off.

I knew where the necklace Arthur was selling that day had come from; I had seen it hanging prettily from a smooth, feminine neck so many times in the past. Swaying and shimmering a thousand shades of red as she would cradle me against her breast and sing softly. “Hush-hush, Alfred. _C'était qu'un cauchemar_.”

Arthur barely paid Matthew any attention. My brother would toddle around the house, chewing his fist and calling out to our father, perpetually ignored. He would raise his arms up and smile, asking my father to hold him. Arthur wouldn't even spare him a glance. Arthur hadn’t been there the day he had learned to walk, I think. Or the day he spoke his first word, which was “cranberry.” Nor was he there to send him off to his first day of kindergarten. Matthew's birthdays were often over-looked, so I would take his chubby little hand and lead him out to the small off-shoot of the St. Louis river that ran near our home to play and attempt to catch frogs. It was better than staying home with Arthur, who would be laying into drink after drink and ranting angrily about everything from the economy to how life was when he was young. At the end of the night, after Matthew and I had slipped into the house and I helped him into bed, I would lay awake and listen to my father cry in long and ragged sobs.

It didn't take long for Matthew to become upset with being ignored so thoroughly. He would come to me and tell me that he was afraid that he was invisible, that Arthur couldn't see him. What other explanation was there? Arthur spoke to me regularly, even if it was only to set me up with some chores, but he never so much as cast a glance at my brother. I explained the situation as best I could at the time. About our mom and how Arthur wrongfully blamed Matt for her 'leaving.' I wasn't sure if my little brother fully understood what I told him but I assured him that he did, in fact, exist.

In the evening on a weekend Matt was sitting on the floor playing with a few toys. Arthur got up to wander into the kitchen to grab another beer when Matt called out to him. My old man didn't miss a beat on his way to the kitchen, no matter how many times Matthew called out. My brother began to fall silent until Arthur cast half a glance down at him and slightly altered the path he was taking in order not to trip over the boy. A look crossed Matt's face, a kind of sudden excitement at the casual testament that he could, if fact, be seen by Arthur. One glance had opened a gate that let out a torrential need for acknowledgement.

Matt called out after him, climbing to his feet and following him but to no avail. Arthur was back to ignoring him, probably regretting tossing that little glance the boy's way.

"Daddy!" Matthew called again, louder this time. Still nothing. "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy look at me!"

I shifted a bit on the old couch to watch after them as they disappeared into the kitchen. My father pulled the fridge open with more force than was probably necessary, each and every bid for attention clearly irritating him. I wanted to call Matt away before he got mad. Normally, if Arthur was angry about something, even if it was Matt, he would end up taking it out on me. I wanted to tell him to just leave the old man alone and go back to what he was doing but I was worried speaking up would bring Arthur's attention to myself.

Matthew followed him back into the living room, still calling out and still being ignored. He slowed a bit and I sighed in relief, thinking that he had finally given up. Arthur cracked open his beer just before Matt spoke.

"It's not my fault." He said and when Arthur didn't respond he said it again. I tilted my head a bit in confusion, unsure of what he was talking about. For a moment I wondered if he was just thinking aloud.

"It's not my fault!" He said again, but this time with more force. His brow furrowed in anger and his little hands balled into fists. "It's not my fault mom left!"

My old man visibly flinched at that. I started to tell Matt to shut up because that was something you never talked about in our house. Before I could get a word in he started up again. "It' not my fault! It's not my fault mom's gone! She probably left because you're so mean anyway! It's not my fault, it's all _your_ fault!"

Arthur leaned over and set his beer on the floor by the far side of the couch then turned to look at Matt. "Left?" He asked, getting up and taking a few steps toward him.

"Left? You think your mum just left?" The stress in his voice rapidly climbed as he spoke until he was all but shouting. "Fantine didn't leave you spoiled little shit, she's dead because of you!" He grabbed Matthew by the arm and my brother cried out at the harsh grip.

Arthur gave him a hard shake and slapped him with his free hand. "It should have been you! We were happy until you came along!"

Matthew started crying, a loud and terrified sound, and that just made Arthur angrier. He yelled at him to shut up over and over but Matt's cries were becoming louder. Finally Arthur pushed Matt to the ground, and clapped his hand over my little brother's small mouth and nose. Matthew's eyes shot wide when his ability to breathe was cut off.

"Dad stop it!" I was yelling but I didn't move from my place curled up on the couch. He shot me an icy glare that instantly shut me up. Matthew was struggling to pry Arthur's hand away but my old man just tightened his grip.

He leaned over to speak softly into his ear. " _Be quiet_. Don't you dare raise your voice to me again, do you understand?"

Matthew's movements became slower, more lethargic, and just before he lost consciousness Arthur finally let him go. He gasped harshly and scrambled away as quickly as he could.

"Mattie are you okay?" I asked before I could stop myself and when Arthur's attention turned to me a cold stab of fear lanced through my stomach. I shrunk down as far as I could into the sofa and hoped desperately that he would just go back to what he had been doing. Of course he didn't. He never did.

He stood over me quietly a moment before speaking. "What rubbish have you been filling his head with?"

"I'm not." I squeaked. It wasn't a very good answer but I wasn't sure what else to say and that was the first thing to pop into my head.

He didn't say anything for a long while, just stood there and looked at me as if he were considering his options. The sound of my heartbeat was thunderous in my ears, almost drowning out Matt's light crying. He approached me and I didn't move for fear of the harsher punishment that would always come if I made him chase me. I blinked my tears back and opened my mouth, not really sure what I was going to say but needing to convince him to lay off, when he punched me straight in the face.

I shrieked both in pain and surprise and my hands flew up to cover the wounded area. When I pulled one small, shaking hand away it was slick with blood. Arthur reached out again and I jolted back, my arms flying up to protect myself, but he pulled them out of the way. He looked at my face for a moment and let me go.

"I think it's broken." He said matter-of-factly. "Come on, I'm taking you to hospital."

I sat as far away from him as I could in the passenger seat. The Clash's The Guns of Brixton was playing quietly, thankfully filling the dead air with more than just my quiet sobs. Arthur cast me a glance and frowned.

"Stop crying. Be a man."

I bowed my head and wiped my eyes, trying to force myself to stop. "Sorry."

"You tripped and fell." He said. "When they ask you what happened, you say you tripped and fell like the clumsy shit that you are."

I nodded.

"Don't you blame this on me, boy." Wrong 'Em Boyo started up in the background. "This is that little shit back there's fault. We were happy, you, your mum and I, before he came around. Don't you forget that."

After my nose had been reset and my prescription for pain medicine filled we went home. It was late when we walked into the dark house and Matthew was nowhere to be seen. Arthur gave me my pills and a glass of water. I took them and gulped down the glass then started off to bed, but he called out to me before I left the room.

"Come here."

I didn't want to. My face hurt - a steady thrumming ache - and I was so tired. I turned around and went back to him anyway, staring at the floor and hoping desperately that he wasn't going to hurt me. I jumped when he grabbed me but my fear quickly faded when I realized that he was hugging me.

"I'm sorry, Alfred." He whispered, leaning his head down to rest his cheek on my hair.

I pressed my head against his chest and fought not to cry. Even after the pain and blood of a broken nose, after the fear, after the hurt, it felt so good to be held. The dull sound of his heart thumping in his chest, the bitter smell of booze, the warmth radiating off of him, his arms around me.My fingertips twitched, and then I slowly began to wrap my arms around him. Even though he was mean and scary sometimes, I still loved my dad.

I didn't see Matthew until around noon the day after, and I only managed to locate him by actually looking. He was moving around as quietly as possible, obviously worried about bringing Arthur's attention to himself. I don't remember him ever raising his voice above a soft murmur since then.

Sometimes, as I grew older, on days when Arthur was particularly sloshed, he would come up behind me and wrap me in a firm hug. “You look so much like her.” He would say, bending at the waist to bury his face in the crook of where my neck met shoulder. My initial reaction would usually be fear, worried that this touchy-feely good mood would quickly sour into bitter punishments, but when I tried to wriggle away he would squeeze me tighter until I finally gave in and stayed still. Other times, I would catch him staring at me from across the room as I played with Matthew. He would look past my brother, almost through him, and watch my movements with a quiet interest that always felt so invasive.

A few times, I would be taking my nightly shower and he would let himself in, regardless of whether or not I had locked the door, and sit on the lowered toilet seat to watch me in silence. The first time I yelled at him to get out, thinking it was an accident. He just told me not to mind him, as if it were something as average as coming into my room in the middle of the day searching for some lost item. I was almost a teenager by then and more conscious of my body. I wasn't comfortable letting anyone see me naked, much less my dad, so I yanked the curtain shut over the glass door, casting the stall in shadow.

The next day the curtain had been removed.

Just before Matthew’s ninth birthday, when I was nearly thirteen, Arthur had been drinking heavier than I had ever seen him before. He could barely stand, but at least he was relatively quiet. At nine o’ clock Matthew went off to bed. Before I could follow Arthur called for me to stay.

“Come over here, Alfred.” He said, patting the cushion beside himself. I came to him, apprehensive that I was in trouble for something, and sat. “I miss her.”

I nodded, knowing this rant like I knew the back of his hand.

“I was never very fond of the French, but your mother… She was just so beautiful.” He slurred, leaning back and looking at me. He reached out and let the back of his fingers lightly brush my cheek, “You look so much like her.”

I wasn’t sure what to say or do so I sat there, hands on my lap and eyes on the floor. This was not was I had expected. This particular diatribe would usually veer off into a deep explanation of what was wrong with the French, and any physical contact would be of the painful variety. His touch slid from my face and up through my hair and  all of a sudden I could feel his weight pressed up against me and his reeking breath ghosting over my shoulder. I went ridged with shock and winced at the slimy feeling of his tongue sliding over my neck. It all happened so fast I barely had time to try to register the feeling of my clothes being tugged off and the sound of him repeating how much I looked like her and how sorry he was in nothing more than a series of breathy grunts. The dull sound of his heart thumping in his chest, the bitter smell of booze, the warmth radiating off of him, his arms around me.I don’t remember much else of it beyond the sharp and burning pain and how relieved I was when it was all over.

He pulled away from me and something about the sensation wrenched a long sob from my throat. I had been next to silent up to that point. He dropped my clothes into my shaking arms.

“Get out.” He said dully, zipping his fly and knocking back the last of his beer.

I scurried back to my room in a haze of pain and disbelief. The next morning he went about his business as if nothing had happened, and so did I. Life went on and the world kept turning, but with an increasing amount of late-night visits from that point on. Over time he became more brash about it, calling on me in the middle of the day and even when Matthew was around.

At first, it was like fire. Ripping pain that lanced into me, blood, my cries of pain muffled into my pillow. As it became a sick sort of normal, a few times a week, something I closed my eyes and accepted, he tried new things. Couldn't have me limping everywhere, he said, and brought a small bottle of lube. Took more time, explored, experimented with new positions, used his hands. I learned to use my mouth.

I hid my face in my arms, eyes squeezed shut, tried to block it out as he rocked into me and his hands roamed. I hated it, I hated it, I hated it, I hated it, I tensed up and the sound I made could only be explained as pathetic. When he pulled away I didn't move. Couldn't will myself to move.

"Don't say I never did anything for you." He said with a breathy chuckle and patted my rear. When the door closed behind him I sat up and stared down at the wet spot I made on the sheets. Looking at it made my stomach turn. I was supposed to hate it. _I was supposed to hate it_. That dark spot stared back, taunting in it's simplicity and I hated myself more than I ever hated my old man.

I vomited into my garbage can.


	2. Chapter 2

I was sixteen and an overall shut-in. I had next to no friends in school, no after school activities, no dreams or ambitions. I was existing, floating through my youth in a haze of adolescent ennui. I spent my days down by the river with Matthew, skipping stones and fishing for the Walleye that we knew didn’t follow the current that far. Sometimes I would sit beside him in the warm summer sun and read Spiderman, Superman, or Batman aloud, excitedly narrating the adventures printed on color-dotted paper as he looked down at the pages in wonder. He would tell me about his time in school, speaking of friends and acquaintances. He wasn't particularly popular, but he had a functioning social life.

I envied him. I wanted someone to be excited about. To spend my free time amongst friends, find a pretty little girlfriend who would never so much as raise her voice in anger. I wanted to live.

One sunny May morning we were all sitting around the kitchen table, eating in silence. That’s how meals usually went in my house, you eat, you clean your mess, and you go away. Matthew was nursing a bowl of cereal as I worked my way through a bagel. Arthur sipped tea and read the newspaper. The sound of the clock on the wall was deafening as it ticked away our Sunday. Matthew tilted his bowl to his lips and drank down the remaining milk with a series of hushed swallows before he set the dish down and turned to Arthur.

“Dad, can I go play outside ?” He asked, scooting his chair back and standing.

“Wash your bowl first.” Came a reply muttered past his white mug. He didn’t even bother to throw a glance Matthew’s way. Somehow, I had always felt that his cold indifference was much worse than anything he had done to me. He acted as if Matthew didn’t even exist most of the time; forgetting to buy him dinner when he would swing through some fast food restaurant on his way home from work, neglecting to pick him up after some long-running school function. Supposedly unable to remember his full name. It was Matthew Williams Jones, middle name chosen by our mother when she was pregnant. It was her maiden name. I knew he hadn’t really forgotten, but he tried to make it seem that way.

I spoke through the hunk of cream-coated bread in my mouth, “We should go fishing, Mattie.” He smiled and nodded lightly as he went about taking up his bowl and glass. As he made his way to the sink Arthur folded his paper and set in onto the table, followed by his mug.

“Before you go out I need to see you in my office, Alfred.”

“But-”

“No ‘buts.’” He stood and walked down the hall toward his small office. I let out a quiet sigh and grimaced before turning to Matthew.

“I’d rather just get this done and over with. Can you wash my bowl too?” He nodded and smiled gently, probably thinking I was in for a harsh tirade for something I had done wrong. I thanked him and slowly made my way down the small hall, the sound of my shoes scraping the old carpet with each step melding with the soft hum of water in the kitchen. I stood outside the door for a moment before I took a deep breath and walked inside.

Arthur was sitting at his computer desk, his chair turned to face the door and a fresh beer in his hand. He was a man of convenient tastes, and because of that there was a mini-fridge or cooler full of booze in almost every room throughout the house. I pushed the door shut behind myself and leaned up against it. My gaze was glued to the floor.

“Yeah, Arthur?” I asked, wondering what Matthew was doing. Was he already outside? Did he remember to bring buckets for our catches this time?

“Come here.” He said it past the can at his lips and made a waving motion with his free hand. I looked up at him and scowled before I shook my head.

“I don’t want to right now.” I never wanted to in the first place.

He set the beer aside and tapped his fingers on the armrest a few times before he spoke. “I can call Matthew in here, if you prefer.”

I bit my lip and detached myself from the door, my hands clenching into fists as I made my way to him and dropped to my knees just before his lap. Disgust and rage swam through my mind as I pulled his fly down and did what I had to do. It didn’t take too terribly long, it never did, and I gagged when he pushed my head down and it came flowing out into my throat. I hated the taste, it made me want to throw up and it just got worse the more he drank.

I pulled back, coughing, and spat it on the floor. A kick to my shoulder hard enough to send me tipping back onto my ass was all of the communication necessary to tell me how displeased he was at me making a mess of the grey-white tile.

A few paper towels and a bit of scrubbing later, I was pulling my thin sweater over my shoulders and hurrying out the door to meet with Matthew by the river. I noticed that the second hand fishing poles were missing from their spot by the door. I jogged to the small river, glad that the bitter cold of winter was still months away.

I saw Matthew standing there, presumably baiting his line, and let most of the lingering bitterness I was feeling toward Arthur slip away. Today was going to be just me and Matthew, laying around the riverbank and wasting time. That’s all youth is about, isn’t it? Life lived through a thick sheen of innocent laziness. My steps slowed to a walk and I knew that was what I wanted for myself; a naive, youthful uncaring about the dark void that was the adult world.

Matthew heard a stick snap under my foot and turned with a sunny smile. He waved and called me over, and I went back to my slow jog. When I was finally beside him he cast out his line and sat on a small flat rock. “What were you in trouble for?” He asked offhandedly.

I picked up my own pole and dropped the worm-baited hook into the water. “Catch anything yet?”

“Not yet.”

I nodded and we fell silent, the sounds of birds and bugs and the slow creek filled my senses. The air smelled cool and fresh and blew gently through the tall river grass. It was peaceful. It was boring. I counted the seconds until I would turn eighteen and be able to finally move somewhere far, far away. I would finally tell Arthur off, toss my few belongings together, grab Mattie, and go somewhere my old man could never find us. Disappear off into the wilds of the vast world and start over. I knew it ridiculous, but entertaining the thought made me feel hopeful.

We spent the day catching nothing but weeds and sticks. Skipping stones. Digging up more worms. We dropped them into one of the buckets we brought with us until it was almost full of the wriggling little things before packing our belongings and heading back to the house with the warmth of the setting sun on our backs. When we got to the yard, Arthur was almost to his car. He motioned to us to come closer so that he would not need to yell.

“I’m going out for a while.” He said to me, pulling the car keys from his pocket. “Clean up before you go to bed.”

I nodded and took Matthew by the arm, pulling him to the house as the sound of the car starting broke the peace of the evening air. He and I went about cleaning up the mess of cans and wrappers that littered almost every surface in the house before Matthew announced that it was time for him to turn in. I bid him goodnight and he retreated into his room to go to sleep at around nine-thirty. He was always one to be in bed early.

I found myself bored and wide-awake, so I padded my way into the kitchen and pulled out a few of Arthur’s beers. I went to sit out on the deck and breathed in the fresh air. If anything, I guess I can understand why Arthur drank so much. I can’t remember when I started secretly taking them but I suppose that didn’t matter. As long as he didn’t find out about it, I was fine.

I chucked the can I had finished out into the woods close to our house and it landed in the bushes with a muffled scrape. Opened another one and reclined back on one of the plastic fold-out chairs that decorated the porch. I hated that place; I hated the silence of our yard at night, I hated the multitudes of stars, I hated the shoddily constructed façade of a life we had built up.

One word was all it would take to send it all crashing down. One phone call, one trip to the school counselor, all I had to do was tell someone. It was that easy, I knew it, and yet... I didn't know what I was doing; Why I didn't confess everything to anyone who would listen. Maybe I was afraid. Maybe I was just as sick as my old man.

The can I had been drinking was empty so I tossed it away.

Some five beers later, I went back inside with the full intention of raiding the fridge until I puked. Food was a kind of escape to me; when I was preparing it, when I was eating, I didn't have to think. I could focus on the taste, on the texture, on the stretch of my stomach. The pain of overeating was a distraction. And when I slunk off to the bathroom and forced my fingers down my throat I was disgusting. Too filthy to be touched, to be seen. Arthur wouldn't want me with vomit on my lips and snot draining down my face.

As I stumbled down the hallway and my vision swam, I noticed that Matthew had left his door open. I went to close it, as if a door would stop Arthur on the off chance that he had finally grown sick of me, and instead poked my head inside. Matthew was lying there in his loose hand-me-down Popeye pajama pants and over-sized white T-shirt, sleeping quietly with his mouth slack and arms stretched wide. I walked in, shutting the door behind myself, and sat at the edge of his bed.

Somehow, he seemed to be the only thing that wasn’t part of the hideous void that made up living. He was a separate entity from everything else in the world, and he was exclusively mine. Arthur chose to ignore him, acknowledging his existence only when the law or threatening me was involved. Matthew never demanded anything of me, he looked up to me and was completely honest in ways that no one else seemed capable. I loved him for that.

He was lucky. Too lucky. Matthew was the reason our mother was dead, after all. He was the reason my life was a perpetual shit-hole. He was the reason the whole world was so fucked up and I hated him for it.

I can’t really say why I didn’t just get up and leave. Why I didn’t slowly make my way into the kitchen and scarf down as much food as I could fit inside and struggle through a spinning world back into my room to pass out in a puddle of my own drool like I normally did. I reached out and touched his cheek. It was so warm and soft. Before the idea had even solidified in my mind, I leaned down over him and placed a little peck of a kiss on his lips. My hand traced the line of his small jaw, yet to ever taste the stubble of puberty, and traveled down over his chest. It rose and fell with the slowness of a deep sleep. My touch slid down to the little bump of his hip bone.

I can’t make excuses for what I did without sounding like him. I could rant on and on, give a thousand reasons, but they would all boil down to the same thing: empty rationalizations. My mistakes are my own. My life, a long series of mistakes... Each choice, each action was my own. I have no one else to blame.

He was awake by the time his pants were halfway down. He looked at me, gaze heavy with sleep and confusion, before he opened his mouth to speak. I clamped my hand over his lips and shushed him as I tossed his pajamas to the floor. The encounter is a blurred memory to me, with only a brilliant shame standing out in my mind.

“Sssh, Mattie. Be quiet, ‘kay?”

“Stop it, that feels weird!” I had needed both hands for a moment, and he jumped at the opportunity to speak.

“Ah! Al, stop it, it hurts!”

“Be quiet or he’ll hear you.” I was terrified that Arthur would come home at that very moment and find out. I knew he wanted Arthur to know, he wanted him to hear and come running and save him from the torture I was putting him through. All I could think was that Arthur would see and he would toss me aside for Matthew. I knew that he would turn his hideous sights on my little brother, the only thing that I could ever really call mine. And he was mine, he would always be mine. Physically. Mentally. Even if I had to take that ownership by force.

When I finally pulled away from him, he didn’t move or try and cover himself. He just laid there, staring up at the ceiling with tiny sobs shaking his chest and hot tears rolling from the corners of his eyes to become lost in his hair. I buttoned my jeans before I moved him a bit to pull his pants back on, noticing a bit of blood pooling on the sheets beneath him. The color, nearly black in the darkness, made me feel sick. After he was redressed I quickly made my way to the door. As I closed it behind myself, I turned to cast a quick glance at him. 

“Tell Arthur and I’ll kill you.”

 

* * *

 

The sun was peeking from behind a cluster of pine trees as Matthew and I made our trek to the nearby school, a tiny building in which each grade occupied a single room. The walk was painfully silent, with only the sounds of our footsteps over the gravel road interrupting the long calls of a pair of loons. I rearranged my backpack over my shoulder and took a moment to steal a glance at him; he was watching the ground as he walked with an uncomfortable look on his face.

I cleared my throat awkwardly, “Did you finish your homework?”

He nodded weakly. “I only had math.”

“Lucky, I had math, science, and history.”

We fell back into that awkward silence and remained in it until we got to school and parted ways. He barely looked at me the entire day, only opening his mouth to say something when I asked him a question or to show that he was listening. During my classes, I dwelled in a perpetual state of anxiety. He was sure to tell someone, if not a teacher then one of his friends. Between classes he ignored me, opting to take up his classmates in whatever they had planned.

My day was unusually pleasant. A flu was going around so most of my class was absent, meaning I didn't have to deal with the brunt of my classmate Michael's bullshit. After a falling out between us in elementary school he had it out for me and spent every day tormenting me. I don't think I could have endured his taunting after what I had done. I was steeped in too much guilt, too much fear. And yet the memory of it tantalized me. His heat, his tightness, silky blond curls between my fingers, small hands gripping my forearms. It was almost obsessive how I dwelled on it. More than once I had to excuse myself to the bathroom so I could work out my frustrations in a tiny locked stall. It was still clear as day in my mind, and with a few edits (sounds of pain become pleasure and he comes for the first time in his life, just for me) it gets me off embarrassingly fast.

When the final bell rang and no one had come to arrest me I finally let myself calm down. Matthew was waiting for me at the entrance of the school, which was strange since I was sure that the student council had a meeting that day. I patted him on the shoulder when I was close enough and he jumped higher than the little touch warranted.

“Don’t you have club?” I asked.

“I’m not feeling up to it.” He kept his eyes on the ground and his voice was barely above a whisper. I frowned but said nothing else, and we began walking home.

Halfway through town, I offered to treat him to whatever he wanted. He requested ice cream, and I got it for him. A tripe chocolate cone with sprinkles. We sat in the shop, quietly enjoying out frozen treats for some five minutes before he asked me how my day was. Things rolled along into a normal conversation and I couldn’t help but smile. It was like nothing had ever happened, with the exception of the clear discomfort that forced him to sit at an awkward angle. I was so relieved, he was treating me normally again. He was over it and things would go back to the way they had been.

If I was going to be a bastard, at least Matthew was still happy. I would lavish him in anything he wanted, any time he asked. I would make him happy, and make him forgive me, regardless of what it took. I would make him mine again.

When we got home he went to his room to start on his homework, and as I made my way to the bathroom Arthur stopped me and told me to see him when I was done. I stayed in the shower until the water ran cold, and took far longer than necessary to get ready for bed in the hopes that he would have fallen asleep before I was out of the bathroom. I saw Arthur’s door slightly ajar (it always was when he was requesting me) and I went inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I should mention: I read and appreciate all your comments! I just usually don't respond unless there's a direct question because 1) I get shy and don't know what to say (/ \\) and 2) I feel like it artificially inflates my comment stats and I keep an eye on my numbers. I thought I should mention in case I was coming off like some kind of fancy person looking down on my readers from some ivory tower built out of underserved self-satisfaction (I mean, it's just a fic lmao).
> 
> To address some concerns brought up in the first chapter: Yes I am fine, it's kind of you to worry. :)


	3. Chapter 3

Each week I would get an allowance that was part of the unspoken agreement between Arthur and myself for keeping my mouth shut about our home life. Twenty dollars, which may not sound like a lot but considering how poor we were it was a respectable price. Normally I would spend it on junk food or save up for a new pair of shoes now and then when mine had become all but ugly tatters. Sometimes I had to work extra hard with Arthur in order to get a dime, more often than not when his coolers were running low and there was actually more food in the fridge than booze. Other times he just liked to make me jump through hoops for it. I had been doing that more than ever by then. Sometimes I wondered if I was getting too old for him. To earn my keep, I would have to come up with new and creative ways to entertain him or swallow my pride and beg for it while he was pushing into me.

“You’re such a slag.” He would mock, sneering in that damnable way and throwing a few wadded up bills on my bed. I would slink out of the room to shower, and before I stepped into the spray I would stand in front of the bathroom mirror and pick at my face (twenty bucks worth of junk food a week was hell on the complexion) or scrutinize how much weight I had gained. Arthur found it ugly and would leave me alone for longer stretches when I was less than fit. There was also that certain morbid satisfaction I got from stuffing down enough food to make myself throw up.

I needed the money he gave for less selfish reasons now. I was treating Matthew nearly every day; trips out for ice cream on the way home from school, movies on weekends, little surprise gifts throughout the week. Arthur never gave him so much as a dime so it was relatively easy to impress him with the things I bought.

Matthew sat on a stump beside our house, finishing the cone of maple nut ice cream I bought him. His shoelaces had fallen undone at some point during the long walk home and the little strips swished back and forth with the lazy kicks of his pale legs.

“You’re gonna trip and break your neck.” I said, getting up from my perch on a large rock to kneel in front of him.

“I can do it myself, I’m not a little kid.” He said past the cream in his mouth. There was no animosity in the comment.

I caught his gaze past the smoothness of his knee. "Too late, I'm done."

He thanked me and turned away just as a fat blob of melted ice cream dropped down from the edge of his cone and landed square on his knee.

I leaned forward and pressed my tongue against his skin, holding his gaze as I lapped the melting dessert from his warm flesh.  It was sweet with a hint of salt from his sweat, already half-melted in the heat. Matthew opened his mouth to protest what I had done, but before more than a few words could escape I swooped up and hushed him with a firm kiss. His lips were cold and a little sticky and he didn’t kiss me back.

All I had been able to think about for an entire week was his mouth, those full lips parted and gasping my name. I wanted more and I knew it was wrong, but that almost made it more enticing. When I pulled away he stared at me a moment, as if fishing for words, before he went back to eating his ice cream in silence. A light blush tinted his cheeks.

We sat wordlessly, with only the soft sound of wind rustling through cat tails and croaking frogs to break the quiet, until the sun was setting and a warm breeze pushed in from the east.

When we got home Arthur was sitting in the living room, watching a rerun of some old British drama and sipping a glass of scotch. He turned and regarded me with a tiny cock of his head in lieu of “come here.”

“Yeah, Arthur?” I asked from the doorway as Matthew continued to his room. He never expected to be called on by the old man.

“Take out the garbage.” He said through another long sip, his gaze sliding over me like some wet, disgusting thing.

“Okay.” As the night went on I had a thousand things I wanted to say, but none of them dared pass my lips.

“Alfred, wash the dishes.”

“Yeah.” _Do it yourself, you piece of shit_.

“Alfred, come into my study.”

“Coming.” _I hate you_.

“More tongue.”

_I hate you_.

“Swallow it this time.”

**_I hate you_**.

I was disgusted by the stuff. The slimy texture and bitter flavor always made me gag. I wanted to spit it in his face, I wanted to throw it all up right back onto him, I wanted to bite his dick off and spit _that_ in his face. I forced myself to swallow.

 

* * *

 

“I think it might be too late for an ice pack to do much good,” Matthew pointed out to me the next morning. He was inspecting the smooth blue-purple ring around my left eye, fingers delicately touching the tender skin. Although the wound hurt, his touch was soothing. My eye had swelled something hideous the night before, to the point where I couldn’t even open it, but I had ignored it and went to sleep.

I nodded and stuffed the last bite of toast into my mouth. It could be worse, it could have been another trip to the hospital, another excuse, reset bones, stitches, pain killers.

Matthew picked up my empty plate on his way to the sink as Arthur came out of the bathroom, briskly drying his hair with an orange towel. He cast a quick look down at me as he walked past to rummage around in the refrigerator. I knew what that look meant; If I tell anyone I’ll have a lot more than a sore eye to worry about.

I stood up to finish getting ready for school just as he was walking past, and this time I had the pleasure of using my full height to look down at him. He cracked a condescending smile as he caught my glare and held it. After a tense moment my gaze dropped to the table. I was taller than he was, and could probably kick his ass in a fight if I needed to, but he knew I didn’t have the balls to try. Every time I saw him all I wanted was to sock him in the mouth but I never could work up the courage.

Except last night; I had worked up the nerve to half-whisper, “fuck you.” So much for that little stab at rebellion, the sore flesh around my eye was a constantly aching reminder of how weak I was.

“Alfred, we’re gonna be late.” Matthew said to me, patting my arm as he hurried into his room to grab his backpack. I let out an exaggerated sigh, I was in no mood to parade my shiner around school, and went to grab my own bag.

The walk to school was a short and decidedly uneventful one but I was filled with apprehension. I kept messing with my hair, trying to get it to cover the dark bruise without any luck.

We walked into the building and parted ways with a little wave. I stuffed my backpack into my locker after taking out a couple notebooks, then quickly made my way to my classroom. I slid into my seat and was sure not to look up in the hopes that no one would notice the bruise.

“W’sup, fatass?” I heard a loud voice from behind me just before a hard slap landed on the back of my head. I glanced back and scowled. It was a kid in my class, Michael Freznau. Messy brown hair, freckled, eyes so dark brown that they were nearly black. His bag was slung over one shoulder and he was looking down at me contemptuously. He loudly snapped a piece of gum between words and that was probably the worst thing about him; Even the way he chewed was smug.

We had been friends as young kids. I always went to his house to play and one summer he finally asked me why I never let him come to my house.

"It's because your dad's a drunk, huh?" He had asked in the middle of some fighting game we were playing. Side-by-side, both our legs folded pretzel-style. "That's what my mom said."

Rage, edged with hot shame, shot through me and before he got another word out, I tackled him. By the time his mother got into the room and pulled me away kicking and screaming, Michael needed stitches for his split lip and his nose was bleeding. We never forgave each other for that day.

“What?” I snapped.

He walked to my side and let out a long, drawn-out whistle. “Woah-ho-ho, Jones, would ya’ look at that shiner. What happened? Did your momma crawl up outta the ground and sock ya’ for bein’ such a little puss?”

I laughed humorlessly and opened my notebook to pull out my half-completed homework. “You’re hilarious, you know that?”

He laughed, a barking and nerve-wracking sound, as he walked a few desks away to sit down and pull out his own papers. Of everyone who mistreated me in school, I hated him the most. He was a nosy, entitled prick who also happened to be the son of the principal. He never saw any real trouble for the things he did, the classes he skipped, the rules he broke.

By the time I realized that I was clenching my fists, my nails had dug little red half-moons into my palms.

The day went by like any other. I managed to hide my shiner from my teacher, or they had seen enough cuts and bruises on me to stop caring. I spent my lunch alone, sitting at my usual table off in the far corner of the cafeteria and idly poking my meal of soggy fish sticks and fries. I eyed my fellow students in boredom. A gaggle of goth kids in a shadier portion of the room, talking amongst themselves in hushed voices. The jock and cheerleader table in the middle of the room, rowdy and loud and headed by none other than Freznau. Across the room was Matthew and his group, a veritable hive of kids babbling excitedly amongst one another.

Past the little girls with their frizzy hair and shiny braces, the boys with warbling voices and one thousand watts of pent-up energy, was my brother. Young, sweet, innocent, kind Matthew nibbling at fries and laughing politely at jokes. Florescent light lit his delicate curls, making him shine past the mess of uninteresting, plain children that filled the room.

I was so caught up in looking at him that I didn’t see the ball until it hit me square in the forehead. A roar of laughter came from the middle of the room, Freznau's table, and it finally processed that Michael must have lobbed a football at me while I wasn’t paying attention. I cast them all a glare and they only laughed louder.

The rest of the day passed by uneventfully and by the last bell I was more than ready to head home. Matthew stopped by my locker, telling me to go on without him since he had a meeting that day. I tossed my things together and started on my way home, hoping Arthur would be out when I arrived.

I turned a corner to head down one of the alleys I normally took as a faster route home and ran straight into Michael. He was leaning there against the wall, his new ten-speed bike leaned against the wall beside him. Although I wondered what he was doing there, I just ducked my head and hurried along, hoping he wouldn’t bother me.

“Sup, faggot?”

I stopped in my tracks, gritting my teeth and squeezing the strap of my bag. I turned to look at him. “Fuck off Mike, I’m not in the mood.”

He laughed, a quick bark of a sound, and dislodged himself from the wall. “What’s got your panties in a bunch?”

Deciding to ignore him, I turned and started away but he grabbed me by the forearm and spun me around to face him. He was the same height as me, stockier from playing the quarterback in the school football team for the past year, his dark eyes dancing in mirth.

“I don’t remember saying you could walk away, faggot.” He pushed me and my back hit the hard brick wall with a dull thump that hurt more than it sounded like it did. “You didn’t give my ball back at lunch.”

I said nothing and his grip on my arm grew tighter until I hissed in pain and tried to squirm away. I wanted to hit him so badly that I was shaking. I suppressed the urge. Whatever he did, it would be nothing compared to the punishment Arthur would dish out if he found out I was fighting.

“I think you owe me an apology.”

“Fuck you,” I growled through clenched teeth. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to knock his teeth out of his mouth, drive my fist straight into his nose until there was nothing left but pulp. My hands were clenched so tightly that my forearms were starting to ache.

“Said like a true f-a-g-g-o-t." He was a master of insults. "You owe me for making me waste my time going over to your piece of shit part of the lunch room to get my ball. How much money do you have on you?”

“I don’t have any,” It was a weak lie and he saw right through it. He yanked and twisted my arm until I cried out in pain and dropped my bag.

“Don’t lie to me, Jones. Everyone knows you get money from your dad like the little papa’s boy bitch you are. Hand it over.”

I took a moment to think: If I just gave in and handed him the money, he’d let me go and I could head home. It would be the third time he’d extorted me in the last couple of months, and he was beginning to get brash about it. He had never stopped me in such a public area before. If I gave it to him, I could just grab my bag and go home.

Go home and explain where my money went.

Go home to Arthur and earn it all over again.

I grit my teeth, made up my mind, and kicked him in the shin as hard as I could.

To my unfortunate surprise, he only yelped loudly in pain but didn’t release me. He slammed me up against the wall again, wincing as he was forced to put his weight on his hurt leg to hold me properly. His fist connected with my jaw, sending my glasses skittering off down the dirty alley. Thankfully it was only his left hand so it didn’t hurt as much as it could have. That small happiness didn’t last long though, and I was bent double with a long wheezing hack when he slammed his knee into my stomach.

He let me go and I dropped to my knees on the concrete, gasping and retching. He scowled at me and flexed his leg a few times until the pain dulled. When he held his hand out, his expression pure contempt, I decided that it was best I just swallowed my pride and give in. From my pocket to his, that week's money was gone with barely so much as a muted crinkle.

"Nice doing business with ya, Jones." The sheer smugness in his tone made me hot with anger and embarrassment. The urge to get up and punch him, beat him into the dirt, smash every bone in his body was so strong that it made my stomach twist painfully. I felt sick.

He hopped onto his bike, chuffed another little laugh at me, and rode away.

I stayed there a moment, waiting until the rage passed and I could think clearly again. Waited for my body to stop shaking. Once my heart had slowed I picked up my bag, glasses, pride, dusted myself off and continued home.

To my thorough dissatisfaction, when I got home Arthur's car was still sitting in the driveway. I found him in the kitchen preparing a scotch on the rocks, still wearing his cheap department store uniform as if there was no time to be wasted on changing before he got the venomous bite of booze on his tongue.

He turned his head to look at me, behind me for a moment, then back into my eyes. "Where's the other one?"

I kicked my shoes off, finding any reason to break eye contact, "Student council meeting."

"Right," He muttered past the glass at his lips. He leaned against the counter nonchalantly. "And what happened to you?"

"Nothing." All I wanted to do was rush to my room and stay locked in for the rest of the day. My arm and stomach still ached.

My old man nodded in a way that said he didn't actually care what was wrong with me. He downed his drink and set the glass aside. After taking a beer from the fridge he beckoned me to follow him down the hall, toward his room.

I grit my teeth, dropped my backpack on the table, and begrudgingly followed.

 

* * *

 

Not too long after Matthew returned home and Arthur had gone off to the bar, we sat in the living room together watching some old movie about killer birds. He worked through a report while I drank my way through my fifth can of cheap beer.

I was draped over the couch, passively watching Matthew work as old-timey actresses wailed melodramatically on screen to the soundtrack of endless crowing. Eventually, after sucking down the last little slosh in my can with a grimace, I slowly slid to the floor. I wormed my way over to him and peeked past his hand for a moment to see his progress; something about George Washington's teeth not actually being wooden. My lips had that numb, tingling feeling that drunkenness provides and my mind swam, struggling to focus on any one thing for any period of time.

With some effort I pushed myself up to sit and slid in behind him, one leg on either side on his thin hips and my head resting against his shoulder.

"You stink."

"Mmph," My reply was muffled by his hair and the nearly threadbare fabric of the shirt I had passed down to him. He smelled like detergent and something sweet. My cheek rubbed against his neck and it was so warm, so smooth that I couldn't help but to turn and plant a kiss there. His body tensed, his pencil stopping mid-letter.

Matthew sat there a moment, unmoving as I placed a line of sloppy kisses across his neck and shoulder. Only after I kicked his notebook away and wrapped my legs around him did he speak.

"Alfred," he wriggled a bit but I just tightened my legs around him, "stop it, I don't want-"

I covered his mouth with my hand, silencing him. "Sssh, I promise it wont hurt this time." As my free hand trailed along his side, his chest, over his thighs hidden by denim, I couldn't seem to focus on a single thing. A million thoughts swam through my mind; Freznau's endless harassment, my old man's smug grin, the bitter taste of booze on my lips, the goose bumps on Matthew's skin.

This time I would be gentle. This time it wouldn't be for me. I just wanted to touch him, taste him, spoil him with my caresses. I would make my fantasy - him squirming in pleasure, gasping my name, thinking only of me - reality. I would show him how good I could make him feel. I wasn't _selfish_ , like Arthur.

I ignored the warm tears that slid down his cheeks and pooled against my hand and I pushed my free hand into his jeans.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Axis Powers: Hetalia or any copyrighted product or service mentioned herein. This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to the lives of any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. I make no money from the creation or distribution of this work.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [NNFLG Aside - Father's Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7284352) by [Tamagoakura (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Tamagoakura)
  * [NNFLG Aside - Nostalgia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4357709) by [Tamagoakura (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Tamagoakura)




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